I’m tempted to just sign the thing, but I’m not that stupid. I scan the first page—and freeze when I see the amount of money they’re offering. My God. No freaking way. That has to be a typo or something. There are way too many zeroes there. “Is this number correct?”
“It is.”
I stare at the number and my head spins with all the possibilities. It’s more money than I’ve ever dreamed of in my entire life. That much money means freedom. Safety. Independence. And a real home for the first time in years.
That much money means a future.
I quickly read through the rest of the document. There’s a confidentiality agreement, and a paragraph about medical exams and tests both before and after the research project, including, but not limited to, a physical exam, blood tests, and an MRI scan. The last page of the contract has a waiver for any injuries we might sustain. Definitely not videos and surveys then.
My head snaps up. “What’s this about medical exams? And injuries?”
“We’ll be conducting a routine medical exam to make sure it’s safe for you to participate in the project. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“But it says there are some risks involved.”
“Oh, the legal department always adds lines like that to our contract. It’s standard language for every project we do. The risks are minimal, I assure you.”
She hands me a pen and her smile never wavers. I roll it between my fingers, staring at the words not liable for any injuries, trauma, or permanent damage sustained during the duration of the research project. I want to sign, need to sign, but there’s so much she isn’t telling me.
“Elena, you’re going to be eighteen in two months. You’ll be on your own with no money, no home, and no job. You have the grades to go to college but no way to pay for it.” She taps the edge of the paper with a shiny fingernail. “We can find you a job. We can get you into college. And we’re offering enough money for you to do whatever you want with your life. All you have to do is help us with this project. A few hours of your time, that’s all we ask.”
My pen hovers over the blank line. Everything she said is true. I am desperate, and they’re offering a lot of money for one day of work. More money than I could ever expect to make on my own in a lifetime. Especially since no one is willing to hire a freak like me. If I turn this down, I’ll regret it forever.
There might be risks involved—but what other options do I have? No one else is going to help me. I’m on my own. And my time is running out.
I sign my name on the line.
Thursday
A fancy black car picks me up early in the morning. I ride in the backseat in silence, like all the times I was chauffeured from one house to the next by one of my social workers. He always had me sit in the back too, like I was a criminal in a police car. And I always felt the same mix of uncertainty and fear swirling in my gut, along with the slightest trace of hope. Just like I do now.
We travel over an hour east of Los Angeles, to where civilization begins to give way to the desert. When there’s nothing around us but rocks and dirt, the car approaches a five-story building surrounded by a high fence with a security checkpoint. It’s the only thing in sight for miles and looks like a generic office: light gray exterior, shiny tinted windows, and perfectly trimmed trees breaking up the concrete sidewalk.
The driver drops me off in front of the glass doors, where Lynne is already waiting. She wears another smooth, black pantsuit, and her highlighted hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. “Welcome to Aether Corporation, Elena. Please follow me.”
The lobby is bright, with floor-to-ceiling windows and light-colored hardwood floors, probably bamboo or something expensive. A frizzy-haired receptionist sits at a modern desk made of the same wood as the floor. The wall behind her displays the Aether Corporation logo in silver letters.
Both Lynne and the receptionist stare at me with wide smiles while I sign in at the front desk. We’re the only three people in the room, but I feel like I’m standing alone on a stage with an entire audience watching, waiting for me to screw up.
The receptionist hands me a badge with my name on it, which I attach to my shirt. Lynne leads me into an elevator with walls so shiny I can see our reflections in them. “We’re excited for you to get started,” she says. “But first we have to do some quick, routine medical tests.”